


incapacities

by SHlR0GANE



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: :(, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Male My Unit | Byleth, Silver Snow Route, Silver Snow spoilers, linhardt is just awkward
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:41:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24930106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SHlR0GANE/pseuds/SHlR0GANE
Summary: After Byleth received news on what had occured at Gronder Field, he finds the ever-so apathetic Linhardt at the other side of his door, asking if he wants to catch fish in the middle of the night.
Relationships: Linhardt von Hevring/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 4
Kudos: 40





	incapacities

**Author's Note:**

> silver snow spoiler. uve been warned

Byleth’s heart dropped before he registered what the Knight of Seiros had reported to them.

Gronder Field, the place that held the most precious memory among the students.

Now, it will only ever go down in history as the place where Prince Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, was slain; where Claude von Riegan, heir to House Riegan, the leader of the Leicester Alliance, went missing after their three-way battle against each other and the Imperial Army.

Byleth tried to hold on to the silver lining that perhaps Claude is still alive. However, his survival could only provide a certain extent of relief, knowing that the former students of the Blue Lions suffered heavy losses, with Dimitri and Dedue both gone.

He could get mad at Edelgard, have her head shown to the whole of Enbarr— _yes,_ _that’s what Dimitri would want_ , Byleth thought. But Edelgard was, and still is, someone precious to him, even in this war that was brought upon by her ambitions. He was, after all, the Black Eagles’ advisor.

He saw Seteth and Catherine try to have their comrades think logically. “We must not let our personal feelings cloud our judgement. Our next course of action is crucial—”

Byleth didn’t hear what everyone had said that meeting.

He cried that night (he never did before), after being roused by Seteth out of his dream where he had been speaking to Dimitri.

Now, Byleth lies awake in his quarters. He isn’t crying anymore, but he still feels empty, lamenting his weaknesses and shortcomings. His father had just died earlier; though, five years may have passed since Jeralt’s murder, to Byleth, it had only been a few months given the duration of his slumber. He wished he could have told Jeralt everything, maybe even join the Blue Lions if it meant protecting the boys.

He wishes to talk to Sothis, at least, he couldn’t think of anyone else who would understand him, and possibly slap some sense out of him. Moreover, she would probably have answers on Claude’s whereabouts.

For once in his life, Byleth thinks he’s vulnerable.

It terrifies him.

Byleth’s thoughts were interrupted with a knock on his door so soft, he would have missed it if it weren’t for the silence that had eaten up the whole room.

_It’s probably Bernadetta_ , he thinks judging by the knock. He tries his best to pull himself together, since the child was susceptible to other people’s emotions. Regardless, of who it was though, he should be strong, at least for his students.

He did not expect, however, that his apathetic Crest scholar would greet him at the other side of the door. He was in his sleepwear already, but he had brought his fishing line and a book with him.

“Linhardt, what brings you here at this hour?”

He looks at Byleth with his expression as sleepy as ever, studying his face as if to confirm that he had been crying prior to his unannounced visit.

“I assumed that you would still be awake, possibly end up overthinking certain things, especially regarding the Knight’s report earlier,” he deadpans.

Byleth winces at the statement.

Ever since their Academy days, Byleth had always fought beside Linhardt in the frontlines during their missions (much to the younger’s annoyance). Even so, he could never really understand the boy’s nature—whether he was perceptive or just tactless, Byleth couldn’t really be so sure.

The priest takes the other party’s silence as a sign that he’s hit bullseye. He knows that his Professor would be one to beat himself up for literally everyone’s fault. He’d even lamented that it was his fault as to why Edelgard had gone against the Church.

“In any case, I feel like we haven’t spent much time together ever since we’ve reunited. Seeing that you obviously wouldn’t be able to sleep in _this_ —” he gestures at Byleth from head to toe, “condition. I’d been guessing you would love some company for tonight.”

“I—uh,” Byleth stutters, not knowing what to say. “Sure.”

They make their way to the pond, silence falls between them that was neither awkward nor comfortable. They just didn’t have the words to say.

As they passed the greenhouse, however, Byleth was suddenly hit with the familiar scent of flowers that was once tended carefully by Dedue. He tries to hide the cringing of pain, so as Linhardt wouldn’t notice. Thankfully, it was dim enough outside to cover changes in one’s facial expressions.

Once they’ve reached the pond, they settle themselves at beside the fishkeeper’s stall. Linhardt ponders on what ever he has to talk with the Professor; after all, he is, in fact, aware of his rather graceless way of speaking (thanks to Caspar’s and Bernadetta’s honesty throughout the years). So, for the sake of his dear Professor, he tries to choose and weave his words carefully in his mind before speaking.

He sees the end of his fishing line as he was thinking of what to say to Byleth, and smiles.

“I don’t think I ever repaid you for this, Professor.”

For a moment, he didn’t know what the boy was referring to until his eyes land on the fishing float. It was worn out, discoloration apparent after five years, but if Linhardt was still using it, then it still must be doing its job.

Byleth, too, smiles, knowing that his student still kept his gift after all these years. “You’ve saved me enough in the battlefield more than enough as thanks,” he says lightly, until he thinks: _if only we could do the same to them._

Linhardt sees the frown on Byleth’s face, immediately knowing what he’s thinking; so he throws his fishing line to the water and pushes the rod towards the older man, much to the latter’s confusion.

The priest brings his knees to his chest and places his chin on one of them. “Keep yourself busy,” he demands as he merely watches, ignoring the book he had brought with him.

The two, again, don’t say anything for a while. The only thing that they could hear are the sporadic splashing of water from the pond and the soft blowing of the wind.

Seeing the Monastery with only few people, without the students, employees, and merchants roaming around, feels as if they were in a different world. Possibly where there was no war, where all of the students, including Edelgard and Hubert, were only sleeping in their quarters. Where Jeralt was out drinking with other mercenaries within Garreg Mach.

Thoughtlessly, Byleth reels in the fishing line and gives it back to Linhardt. “The fish are probably asleep by now.”

“I suppose,” Linhardt shrugs. Fishing was only an excuse anyway.

The Professor suddenly lies on the concrete, looking directly at bright light of the perfectly full moon. He’s read once that looking at a light source could help in stopping oneself from crying, not that it was helpful right now.

“Is it safe for me to assume that this is your attempt to comfort me?”

“And if it is?”

Byleth looks up at Linhardt without changing his position. “Maybe this is why I never chose you to dance for the White Heron Cup. You definitely lack charm.”

The priest scoffs at the response. “As if Felix was a better option.”

“ _He won—_ ”

“At the very least, your jesting made me confirm that you’re not as emotionally incapacitated as I thought you would be.”

Byleth sits back up to feign offense and hits the boy lightly with the book he had brought. Looking closely at it, it was the book on chivalry he had given to Ashe as he was recovering from the injuries he had sustained from their encounter with House Rowe in Ailell. He remembers Ashe telling him to have Ignatz and Linhardt read it right after he had finished it.

“I _am_ ‘emotionally incapacitated’. It’s just I know you’ll only ever speak to me with much normalcy, no matter what the situation is.”

Linhardt raises one of his eyebrows up, looking at his Professor curiously. Byleth smiles as he recalls.

“After Jeralt’s funeral everyone else in the Monastery were walking on eggshells when conversing with me. You were an exception, however.

“You even dared to tell me you slipped into the Church’s vault and took only Crest-related objects to, and I quote, ‘help in our investigation in uncovering spies within Garreg Mach’. In retrospect, I do believe that it probably had been for your personal use.”

“And as I said then,” Linhardt says in a sing-song voice, “between asking for permission and forgiveness, it is rarely useful to request the former.”

“So you’re asking for forgiveness now?”

The younger grins teasingly. “Not quite.”

Feigning defeat, Byleth sighs contentedly and lies back down on the concrete, followed by Linhardt this time, doing the same.

Silence, once again, takes over the air, only this time, more comfortable than before. The older man had already forgotten that he had been bawling his eyes out only a few hours ago, alone in his quarters.

Byleth shifts his head to look at his companion, his deep green hair sprawled across the floor. He takes a few strands in between his calloused fingers and marvels at how smooth it is— _magic_ , he thinks, _or Cethleann’s Crest and relative genes._

Linhardt pays no mind to Byleth’s sudden attention to his hair, instead he breaks the silence between them.

“I forget, even now, that you are only a few years older than we are.”

He faces Byleth whose eyes are now on him, but fingers still laced with his green locks.

“Perhaps it was your years as a mercenary that had made you so uncomfortably mature—at least that was what I thought in your early days in the Academy. We spent much time in the battlefield together, and you always invited me out for tea in hopes to motivate me, but I could never quite get a hold of your nature—”

It was Byleth’s turn to scoff and smirk. “Quite peculiar that _I_ had the same thoughts about you just earlier.”

Linhardt throws him a playful glare before continuing: “my 17-year-old self would have never imagined I would be lying on concrete five years later, having a heart-to-heart conversation with my most doting Professor.”

“Definitely. With how rude and tactless you were?”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”

“And I’ll pretend you hadn’t called me _doting_ , when you had Hanneman as your professor as well.”

They laugh quietly, hoping that guards roaming around Garreg Mach wouldn’t be alarmed at the sudden sound.

Byleth smiles, possibly the most genuine one Linhardt has ever seen since he has entered the Monastery. He admits to himself that it is quite contagious, but on Sothis’ name he would never say it out loud.

Suddenly, Byleth tilts his head upward towards the direction of the cafeteria. He only noticed the faint light coming from the small windows, signalling that it’s still open. So he carefully stands up, offering a hand to his companion.

“Let’s get some midnight snack—soup, maybe, before the guards catch us, and _we_ catch a cold.”

Linhardt reaches out and lets himself be pulled upright. They wipe off the dirt from their loungewear as they head towards the cafeteria.

Before they enter the building, Byleth feels a hand tug his sleeve. He turns to see Linhardt’s face with the lightest shade of pink coloring his usually pale skin. His eyes zeroed in on Byleth’s and pupils evidently dilating, thanks to the cafeteria’s lights.

He frowns and opens his mouth, as if thinking as to why he stopped the Professor in the first place.

Finally, looking as if he’d found the right words, he steadies his lips before he claims: “I don’t plan on dying on you. Not in this war, not ever. So don’t you dare die on me, too, Professor.”

Byleth is paralyzed at the his former student’s remark. He isn’t sure what to reply.

“ _You’re lucky, you brat._ ”

For a moment, Byleth was sure that the voice had belonged to Jeralt. He whips his head towards the direction of the voice, inside the cafeteria, only to see a group of knights playing cards and handing over money to an olive-skinned boy…

_Wait_ , Byleth frowns, _is that Cyril gambling?_

Despite Linhardt’s initial contentedness with the events of the night, it ended up less favorable for both him and Cyril, with the latter now being the target of Byleth’s nagging and doting.

At the very least, Linhardt can say for sure that Byleth isn’t as emotionally incapacitated as he thought. Although he isn’t sure what to make of the tactician’s incapacity to reply to his remark—the closest thing he could think of next to a confession.

In fact, the whole night was the closest thing he could think of next to a confession. He missed hours of precious sleep just to talk to his Professor, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Byleth remembers to buy Linhardt a new fishing float—the closest thing he could think of next to a promise.


End file.
